


Ne'er Flew So Speedily

by Lilliburlero



Category: English and Scottish Popular Ballads - Francis James Child
Genre: Anal Sex, Ballads, Capital Punishment, Child 164, Child 81, Corpses, Crossover, F/M, King Henry's Conquest of France, Little Musgrave and Lady Barnard, M/M, Murder, Oral Sex, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-25 16:00:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2627675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilliburlero/pseuds/Lilliburlero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the ballads, a lovely little page usually gets what's coming to him.</p><p>*</p><p>Advisory: references to capital punishment (hanging), murder.</p><p>To Grondfic's <a href="http://lilliburlero.livejournal.com/270176.html?thread=829280#t829280">prompt</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ne'er Flew So Speedily

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Grondfic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grondfic/gifts).



> The title is from the [version](http://lilliburlero.tumblr.com/post/69110828679/child-164-king-henrys-conquest-of-france) of 'King Henry's Conquest of France' sung by Richard Thompson.
> 
> As in the ballads, any resemblance to historical accuracy is purely coincidental.

Dickon stopped at the lych-gate. It still bore the decorations from his lord—his _erstwhile_ lord’s—wedding, their petals blackly plastered against twigs, leaves starting to curl. It had been, all things considered, a _damned_ good year. A year ago he’d been one more snotty twirp among dozens, trying to catch a barbaric border lord’s eye for a small purse or minute advancement, and now: _Gentleman of the King’s Bedchamber._ His sharp hearing and propensity to pay attention to the things most people ignored had seen him right. His old nurse said Dickon had big ears, like the little jug he was—not _literally_ big, for he had been a nice-looking boy and was now become a distinctly handsome young man. Though he was, he had to admit, literally on the short side, and that was unlikely to change much now that he was eighteen. He barely reached the King’s chin. But the point was he’d had the chance to confirm it. In person, and quite extensively so.

He strolled up the path and into the church porch. Memories rustled like the white silk houppelande with which she had delighted or scandalised (depending on your view of such things) the whole county last Easter Sunday. He should drop in, say a prayer for their souls—though he suspected them beyond the reach of prayer. He shivered: well, who knew what repentance might take place _in extremis_? He owed them five paternosters or so, surely—he hesitated. Was it gloating? He couldn’t see that it was. He had not, after all, borne false witness. He’d done no more than his sworn and bounden duty: any less would have found him doing a long dance with a hempen collar and a stiff prick. He pushed open the south door and crossed the nave.

It was a queer monument. He’d heard of a fashion for tombs like bunks which bore an effigy of the deceased in life on top, and underneath, the image of a decaying corpse covered with worms. He’d never seen one, and thought it sounded a bit much: everyone knew that no man lived forever; you didn’t need reminding. But the recumbent figures on this one were not cadavers, but the finely painted figures of a lady (atop) and a youth (below). She wore a crimson gown. His scabbard was empty. Dickon traced the Latin inscription with his finger and translated haltingly: _she came of the higher kindred..._

He knelt in the rushes to pray. He had got to his third _dimitte nobis debita nostra_ before he realised he wasn’t thinking very holy thoughts. He was thinking about Christmastide just gone, the king’s progress to the North, the three nights His Majesty had spent at Barnard Castle _dimitte nobis debita nostra_ he was thinking about the honour his service to his widowed lord had brought him: to make sure the King’s cup was not empty, never empty, no, not all night long, and how thoroughly and unexpectedly the King’s tastes allowed him to fulfil that particular mandate _dimitte nobis debita nostra_ he was thinking about the King’s profile: wholesome, smooth and ruddy on the right-hand side, sunken, knotted, and paralysed on the left _dimitte nobis debita nostra_ he was thinking about the King teasing him for his North Country accent and dialect, for saying old-fashioned  _lufliche_  not southron  _loveli_  and he was thinking about the King’s wine-dark voice, harsh and Frenchified, gusting _lufliche_ into his ear, followed by instructions for an assignation, as precise and unmistakable as battlefield orders _dimitte nobis debita nostra_ he was thinking about the King’s rawboned length beneath his own compact musculature _dimitte nobis debita nostra_ he was thinkingabout how the King had commanded him to whisper indecencies in his North Country accent and dialect  _dimitte nobis debita nostra_  he was thinking about the King’s royal cock in his common hand and common mouth, about how little it took to bring him off, a tongue-flicker, a thoughtfully caressing finger in that neither-nor space behind the royal bollocks _dimitte nobis debita nostra_  he was thinking about the King’s lean royal thighs and his own common prick frigging between them, about the King’s royal oiled arsehole and—Dickon scrambled to his feet with a stifled ejaculation of horror and fled the church.

Back in the churchyard he leaned against the struts of the lych-gate and steadied his heaving breast. He would seek out the chaplain and confess _impure thoughts_ on the road south; it would be all right. He was not a fool and he knew King Henry was not a fool, not like his father’s cousin, the king after whom Dickon had been inauspiciously named. Henry did not keep favourites. But he did keep promises, and Dickon had been promised _diplomatic service_. The year of Our Lord fourteen hundred and fifteen was going to be another good year, yes, another _damned_ good year. Or at least, an interesting one.

**Author's Note:**

> This imagines, of course, that the 'little tiny page' of [Little Musgrave and Lady Barnard](http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/eng/child/ch081.htm) (Child 81) and the 'lovely page' of [King Henry's Conquest of France](http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/eng/child/ch164.htm) (Child 164) are the same chap.


End file.
